“I thought you figured it out. You seemed to be the only one who realized theprincewasn’t wearing a glamour. It would only stand to reason that if the prince wasn’t wearing a glamour at a glamoured ball, then he wasn’t actually the prince. And he wasn’t. It was Augie who stood on the dais. I was—”
“You were the fat raven.” My heart hammers against my ribs. The man I spoke with last night, flirted with…that was the prince all along. My breath hitches as I realize what that means. I’ve discovered my raven’s identity! Then my stomach takes a dive, sending my mind reeling upside down and back again, and my discovery takes on a new meaning.His identity. For the love of the breeze, what a fool I was! I thought that conversation had been flirtatious and genuine. But no, he wasn’t a charming stranger who enjoyed my company; he was the prince. The same prince who humiliated me behind the glamourist’s shop.
“You’re angry,” he says.
“Stop reading my energy.”
“I can see it on your face,” he says with unexpected sincerity. Or perhaps it’s apology.
I open my mouth, but I don’t know what to say. Iamangry. And embarrassed, and…so very confused.
“What are you?” he asks, brow furrowed as he studies my glamoured face. He takes a slow step closer, his eyes searching mine. “What do you really look like? Were you glamoured last night? Or just masked?”
“I can’t tell you,” I say, tone sharp. “Besides, why do you care?”
“I…I don’t know.”
Again, his words are not what I expect. I anticipated something witty, a joke, but my song seems to have unraveled him. Guilt sinks my heart.
Unraveled.
That’s what my song does.
It unravels. Upends. Destroys.
“Just answer me this,” he says, then adds, “Please.”
It’s the look in his eyes when he sayspleasethat keeps me from outright refusing his request. “What?”
“Are you aware you use magic when you sing?”
I lift my chin. “I don’t sing.”
“How about when you hum?” When I don’t answer, he adds, “Are you a siren?”
I’m surprised at the question. For a moment, I’ve forgotten he still believes I’m of the Sea Court. I hesitate, preparing to weave truth into my next words. “I inherited fae magic from my mother.”
“And your father?”
“Human.”
His lips flicker, as if he can’t decide if he wants to smile or frown. “Why do you resist it? Singing, I mean?”
Another truth I can give. “It’s dangerous.”
He nods. “Your song is an amplifier, isn’t it? When you sing, you amplify the emotions of your audience.”
A pang of grief stabs through my heart. “Yes.”
“It’s haunting. Beautiful. And, yes, dangerous.” A strange look settles in his eyes, one I can’t name. Neither of us seem to know what to say after that, so we settle into silence. I want to tear my gaze from his, but I can’t seem to move. His eyes brim with questions, and mine beg him not to ask. “Em,” he whispers, a quaver breaking that single syllable.
My breathing grows ragged as I await whatever it is he’s going to say. I still can’t decipher his expression, no matter how I try to read the furrow in his brow, the trepidation in his posture.
He opens his mouth to speak again. “You were—”
“Oy, what are you doing back here?” a male voice calls. Franco and I startle, turning toward the stagehand who stands at the far end of the hall near the stage. He sprints toward us. Franco faces him, standing at full height as he straightens his cravat. The man halts when he recognizes the prince. “Forgive me, Your Highness. You’re welcome to go wherever you like. Is it a tour I can give ye? Or is it a closer view from side stage? Madame Cecily is just finishing up the final number right now.”
“No, but I appreciate the offer,” Franco says with an easy grin, seeming to have recovered most of his composure. “We were just leaving. Thank you for putting on such a fantastic show.” Taking me by the hand, he turns around before the man can reply, and leads me back the way I came. His hurried footsteps spell agitation with every beat. Is it because of me?
